Of New Wounds and General Debauchery
by ivyflightislistening
Summary: 007 returns, as rumpled and bruised as he ever is. Conversations and kisses amid the sheets on a cloudy London afternoon. 00Q. 007/Q. Humor, comfort, and romance. "Whether it was during moments like this or while bantering-though Moneypenny called it flirting, but what did she know?-at headquarters, Q prided himself on his ability to coax the hardened spy into smiling."


The Quartermaster had never felt so debauched. But then again, there were worse things to be felt. Like bruises, for one. Even without his glasses, the wounds were prominent. The purple splotches across James' chest, just beginning to yellow at the edges, seemed painful, but double-oh-seven did not appear to notice them. If he was a little slow sitting up, that was not unusual. He was old, after all.

Q smiled. It did not go unnoticed. Being observant was the only reason James Bond had survived into his forties, let alone gotten through training camp. Not that Q was complaining about having those eyes, chips of ice, focused solely on him. James' lips even turned up, if just a little. Whether it was during moments like this or while bantering-though Moneypenny called it flirting, but what did she know?-at headquarters, Q prided himself on his ability to coax the hardened spy into smiling. Not that it was easy, but it was a challenge Q had accepted.

Groggy, but not about to let his genetics fail him, Q reached for his glasses. He slid them into place and the blurry figure sharpened into focus.

He would have looked out of place, James, in this bare apartment. That is, if he hadn't come to make it his second home. He was sitting up, shirtless, on Q's small bed, proud as any lion. He always rose early. In the beginning, he had never seemed to know what to do while Q slept to a reasonable hour. James liked to say that Q was still more teenager than adult, as he had yet to grow out of the need to sleep until midday. Q liked to point out that while Bond had spent the past forty-eight hours running over mountains or doing something similarly ridiculous, Q had been chained to his desk, relaying commands, suggestions, and the not-so-occasional snide remark into his agent's ear. He deserved to sleep until twelve if he wanted to.

So Bond had taken to waiting. Q never said anything, but the Quartermaster found it remarkably similar to the dog he'd had growing up. The great hound had sat by his bed from the moment Q turned out the light until he rose the next morning. As watchful and protective as Q's parents had never been.

Q had taken to leaving books he thought might grab James' interest next to his personal collections. A double-oh agent's life was insane enough without more adventure novels and cipher puzzles. It didn't do any good. When the light finally managed to pull Q from sleep, he found James Bond simply sitting at his side. If Q was lucky, a hand might be in his, or carding through his hair. Once, he'd woken with his head in James' lap, a smirk on the spy's face. That had been more than a little embarrassing.

What little sunlight that managed to filter through London's cloudy skies illuminated Bond's blond hair. Such a contrast from his own, Q knew. The light cast Bond's features into sharp relief. The scars, the bruises, the recent cuts across his cheek that had yet to heal. And God, what it did to those eyes…

Well, Q was perfectly content lying on the disheveled sheets, watching his agent through lidded eyes.

"Whenever you look at me like that," Bond leaned his face closer to Q's, a smirk as dangerous as his job playing on his lips. "I'm reminded that, even though you look like you haven't left primary school, you're not to be trifled with."

Sleepy, Q still managed to roll his eyes. "Better not lie back down. Not sure if you'll be able to get back up."

Something lit in those cool blue eyes, and it had nothing to do with sunlight. Bond turned, kneeling over Q's much-smaller form, and the Quartermaster swallowed.

"You could always help me."

"Funny, Bond. If your arms gave out beneath you now, I would never get you off."

Too late did Q realize the innuendo behind what he had thought was a clever quip. Double-oh-seven took it exactly the way Q had _not _intended him to, and the Quartermaster felt his cheeks flush. Out of embarrassment. Certainly not because of the way he had uncurled himself and lay on his back beneath the spy. The sun disappeared behind Bond as the shirtless agent placed a hand on either side of Q's head. Bond, curse him, was still smiling.

"I like when you look like this," he said, voice rumbling deep in his chest. Q's heart stuttered as those chapped lips lowered to whisper in his ear.

"Like… what?"

"Well, at least you're not pretending your hair isn't a mess right now. At HQ it's as if you're in denial that what you need more than a new gadget is a haircut. But now…" Callused fingers combing through the tangles, it was hard for Q to defend himself.

"You're just jealous-_oh_."

Q could feel James smile against the soft skin of his neck.

"Oh, Q?"

Their relationship was built on these back-and-forths. That and a little bloodshed, expensive technology, and soft voices when the only other things James knew were darkness and pain. "Jealous that I can still grow hair."

Bond rumbled a laugh, lips slowly moving down, catching Q's jaw, laughing again as Q's mouth trembled with Bond's proximity. What could he say? Q had never been gifted with easy conversation or social graces. The few partners he'd had in the past had rarely lasted longer than a few stolen hours in secluded closets or nights in another's apartment. Bond had quite a bit more experience than he did. In moments like this, it certainly showed. And as always, Q made a glorious effort to resist.

"You know," James reminded Q's collarbone, "I'm only old for MI6."

"Say that to your cartilage," Q smirked. He watched James focus on his attention on Q's bare chest, the taller man slowly moving his lips down from Q's collarbone. Even from this vantage point, Q could practically see each of his ribs, a contrast to James' bulk and muscle. At least the agent didn't seem to mind that the only curves he had came from where his bones protruded on his skinny frame.

He had moved on to lingering on each of Q's ribs. James didn't have much of an eye for color if it wasn't red, and he didn't seem to notice the contrast between Q's unblemished, ghostly skin and the brutal bruises that painted his own chest. As long as Q was using art metaphors, James' chest looked like the victim of a brutal splatter-paint war. And Bond had still come away the victor. "What little you have left."

"Always the wit, Q."

He smiled as James lowered himself to the bed, propped up on elbows alone as he stared down at Q. His lip had cracked where it had been hit in his latest mission. Blood welled, and Q had no doubt that at least a small red stain was now smeared across his chest.

Q pressed his thumb to the wound. This last mission had been a particularly difficult one to simply listen to. Perhaps that was why James had appeared in his flat as soon as he'd finished with M, some time around one. Q hadn't been able to sleep until he had turned to find the agent sitting in his apartment, appearing without warning. Neither felt any urgent need to report to MI6 bright and early. If they were needed, they would be called. So for now, they could take some time to breathe.

"You know me, double-oh-seven."

James smiled against his finger. But instead of licking it, or better still, leaning down closer, the agent folded one of Q's hands in his own. Q always felt very small when he did that. Q was tall, but Bond was all hardened lines and muscles, calluses and scars coating every surface of his body. He brought Q's hand up and held it to his cheek. The agent's five-o-clock shadow tickling Q's much softer fingers.

"I also think you should just forgo your sweaters entirely," he murmured. "I like this look much better."

Q raised his eyebrows. It was noon. He was still in bed, cradled underneath the most dangerous, incredible man he'd ever had the fortune to meet. He could take very little seriously.

"I'm sure M would like the view if I showed up at headquarters shirtless. It'd be a nice break from all the men with muscles the size of houses."

"Who cares about M?" James murmured into Q's spindly fingers, but Q hushed him. This was not an action that tended to be successful, but paired with Q retracting his hand from James', the agent silenced.

Slowly, Q sat upright. The older man leaned far enough away to give him enough space to do so. Q couldn't look up at his scarred face. He knew what he'd see. Surprised, the armor would be back in place at the thought that Q might be rejecting him. He would be double-oh-seven again, just "Bond." No familiarity in first names. For such a capable man, he was more insecure about his heart than the twelve-year-old he teased Q of being. Not using one's heart made it a very delicate thing, when one dared to reveal it to another.

Q didn't need to pretend to not see the pain behind Bond's cold mask.

The Quartermaster's hands looked even smaller when he placed them on Bond's-James'-chest.

The agent stopped breathing.

Q's fingers always knew what to do on a keyboard or mouse, when tinkering with a new gadget. He was becoming more accustomed to the feel of James Bond beneath his hands, but this was different. He touched the ugly wound on Bond's shoulder, the constant reminder of the bullet that nearly took his life, and the knife used to prove he still had one. It was not the oldest, nor was it the worst. But it was not the newest either. Q bit his lip as his fingers moved across James' collarbone to the freshly stitched gash, and the more shallow wound just below. Both hovered inches from his heart. Bandages wrapped around his lower arms, hiding the worst of the cartel's artwork.

Smaller, benign cuts were littered across his skin, a few minor burns as well. Q presumed that both were the result of the exploding building and the ensuing fire.

James shuddered beneath his touch as he inhaled, and Q murmured softly under his breath. Everything was fine.

Even though it wasn't.

_Get used to it, Quartermaster_. Q reminded himself. James Bond wouldn't stop working for anyone, let alone his technician. Even if they were sleeping together. Even if Q had stolen a t-shirt from his last overnight at James' apartment, and even though he drowned in it, had yet to give it back.

"They said I would stop this." He whispered. Though he stared at the nick to James' neck, he did not touch this one. Q knew how restless such contact made Bond, given the amount of times he'd nearly been strangled. "Not that I knew you then, of course, but they said I could use my skills to save people. To stop others from getting hurt. Then they said that you were top priority, to do whatever I could. And it's never enough."

Bond was hardly comforting. Double-oh agents rarely were. "They say a lot of things."

Q glared. "Granted, it might be easier if you weren't so hell-bent on setting a record to see how many bandages you need when you get back from each mission."

This made Bond chuckle, his body shaking beneath Q's touch. Q did not laugh with him.

"I wasn't intending to be amusing."

"I know."

"Then why is it funny?"

He had successfully quenched the laughter. Q wasn't sure if he should be so willing to do this, given that he could count the amount of times he'd genuinely heard James Bond laugh on one hand, but he decided he was too angry to care.

Those familiar eyes focused in on him, and Q swallowed as double-oh-seven (never James with that mask on) said, "Getting hurt isn't funny. Nor do I enjoy it. Collateral damage, I suppose."

Q wasn't mollified. "It's not 'collateral damage' if you don't make an effort to avoid it."

"I do."

"I hear everything you do. I often see it on screens. I can truthfully say that no, you don't."

James' lips thinned, but he did not pull away.

"Why not me?" He whispered, staring at Q as intensely as he would an armed enemy or M with the latest instructions. "If someone has to be hit, why not the man who's trained for it?"

That was silly. "No one has to be hit."

And, just to prove his point, he kissed the old bullet wound. It was not the only one, but it was the only one that had never been seen by someone with at least CPR certification. Paired with the surgery James had performed himself, it had not healed well. Q half-wondered if James could even feel the kiss, with all that dead scar tissue.

It also marked the beginning of Operation: Skyfall. The beginning of their collaboration. Q preferred to think of it that way.

He looked up through his eyelashes to see Bond watching him. Dispassionate.

Q sighed against the agent's skin. It was not passion that prompted him to rest his forehead against Bond's shoulder. Roughly eleven hours of sleep or not, working with double-oh-seven tended to be exhausting enough, nevermind sleeping with him and all that entailed.

Something about this gesture softened Bond. Q felt his tense muscles relax in the slightest. He felt that if he were up to facing Bond again, James would be back.

He felt a hand on his back, and a moment later, found himself cradled in James' strong arms. Q was tall and gangly as they came, but somehow, he managed to find a place for each of his limbs. James' torso was very warm, just as good as Q's heavy comforter.

"Q?"

He stared at the scar. "Yes?"

"Thank you for your words, earlier."

Q didn't need him to clarify. "Earlier" would be carved into his memory until he became senile with age or stress, whichever got to him first. "Earlier" had been made up of sounds, the noises transmitted from James' earpiece to his, and the images of Q's latest invention: camera contact lenses. They transmitted whatever their wearers saw onto Q's screen back in London.

The muscled thugs, even more scarred than James, were unforgettable, even before James had whittled his way out of the chair. That had taken roughly twenty-seven hours. Plenty of face time before Bond demonstrated three new ways of killing someone without weapons. Too much time to watch them wield bloody weapons and listen to the wrenching yells that echoed off the basement's damp walls. Too many sarcastic comments hissed through clenched teeth before breaking off into cries of pain.

"You don't seem to be much for poetry, honestly." Q admitted, letting James' body heat assure him that these were all mere memories, now. "Or art history."

The volume of Yeats poetry he kept at his desk at MI6 had lasted about two hours. He had started reading twenty minutes after James had woken up and Q had determined that there was nothing more he could do. "The Wild Swans at Coole" had carried them through the initial punches, then "To Ireland in the Coming Times," "He wishes for the cloths of Heaven," and so forth.

Q had only stuttered a few times. The one occasion he had gulped a sip of water occurred at the same time as the first slice with the razor. He hardly paused to breathe, after that.

"I don't know how you'll feel about this," James admitted into Q's tousled hair, "But it was better than any of the little toys you like to give me."

Despite himself, Q cracked a smile. "Not that you ever bring my little toys back in one piece."

_"He lived in the beginning of the Renaissance, but Botticelli has become so famous because he was the pioneer of painting motion. Beforehand-" _

"_Who sent you?"_

"_Your mother. She sends her regards."_

_Crack!_

"_-even if artists had mastered form and perspective and color, their paintings were all so flat and lifeless. But in "The Birth of Venus," with the wind spirits and Venus' hair curling in the wind, one can imagine that this scene could come to life. The waves seem ready to crash into the sand; the trees toss about in the breeze. Incredible, isn't it, double-oh-seven? This was what the world had been waiting for…"_

"If you made them stronger, that might not be the case."

Two could play at this game. "If you weren't such a violent ape, I might not need to."

James' chest shook with silent laughter, and his arms tightened around his Quartermaster. Q smiled, pushing his glasses back up his nose. While under other circumstances he might have protested to being so cradled, but recent events permitted such allowances.

"Does this hurt?" Q asked, aware that his bony shoulder was pressing right into Bond's much-abused ribs.

"No, Q."

Q didn't move. "Liar."

"Are you hungry?"

"No, James."

James didn't move, except to place another kiss behind Q's ear. "Liar."

Q craned his head back, tipping it to the side to allow James the best access. He smiled as James' lips tickled Q's own stubbly five-o-clock shadow, forgotten in the chaos of the past few days.

"If we're sharing hair advice, James," smiled Q, "I want you to keep yours like this, too. It looks better messy. Not so military-army-grunt."

It was short, but all the better for it. Q reached his hand up, ruffling the unkempt blond hair.

"M would wonder," James reminded him, but Q had won another smile from the hardened spy, and Q grinned back.

"I thought we didn't care about M's opinion?"

James raised an eyebrow, amused. "You still need to. You're new."

Q straightened his shoulders. "_I_ am irreplaceable."

His proud statement didn't last for long. It brought a different kind of grin to James' face, and Q bit his lip as James lowered him back onto the duvet. He could feel the power in James' arms, even wounded as he was. Quickly, Q held up a finger to halt his advance.

"Wait."

Gingerly, he removed his glasses, and reached behind him to set them on the bedside table. Given that James was more than a little sore, Q figured they would be safe there. Then he moved his hand to the side of James' face, waiting.

Even half-blind he could see the glint of James' grin.

"Damn right you're irreplaceable," he growled into Q's ear.

Q pressed a quick kiss to James' lips, before this could escalate to the point where words were impossible.

"Touché." He whispered, and arm hooked around James' next, pulled the spy down into the blankets.


End file.
